


hooked on all these feelings

by KittyViolet



Category: New Mutants, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Blindfolds, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Magic Fingers, Tail Sex, Tails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 19:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16646489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Summary: After Kitty's latest close call, Kitty and Illyana make some discoveries in bed.





	hooked on all these feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tops and Tails](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847597) by [Magik3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magik3/pseuds/Magik3). 



> Takes place between Uncanny X-Men 179 and 180, and sometime after chapter three of "Tops and Tails." Title from Hayley Kiyoko.

How much had changed since you started? Since Ilya came back from Limbo and you could be friends, and then more than friends, since you shared a bedroom, since the magic sigil that served as a sock on the door, since sharing a bed for the first time…. 

So much, and not much: you could talk about what they were doing, about the present (all the time) and the far future (that could be hard) but you still couldn’t know for sure in the morning (that was life in the X-Mansion) whether you’d be alive, or safe, that night. 

So you go on. You hit the books, when you can. You escape your captors, and know you can do it again. You go out and fight alongside heavily armored adults, and you beat a space empire, and then you negotiate with your sewer-dwelling, creepy second cousins (some of whom have the power to kill you if you lose your nerve), and you nearly have to keep your promise to marry one of them in order to save your friends (but you don’t, you don’t have to do it, you don’t, you don’t), and you come home, and you feel, not safe, but seen.

Storm’s new punk look freaked you out. She’s changed; you might change too. You are changing now; she told you that might happen. The first time you saw her greenhouse you felt like a seedling. Now you’ve put out leaves. You can see, through the skylight, the sky. You feel stronger, and yet more unsure; more sensitive, less a child. But you’re still changing. You may not know what’s next.

But you know who you trust. And there she is, sweaty from exercise, or maybe (she’ll tell you tomorrow) from slicing up stray demons; she’s just changing into the sweat pants she wears to bed. You check out her curves, her muscular calves, her fighting stance, now that you know it’s OK with her to see her that way. And then you flop down on your bed, which is also her bed, and you wake up so early (nothing like almost dying underground to make you appreciate a sunrise) and open the spiral-bound textbook and learn, in sunlight, about the history of LISP, and you get out your box of wires and clips and LEDs and you build a dragon-operable laser pointer (Lockheed is smart like a human but chases pointers with the verve of any cat), and then you study for fifteen minutes more in the vain hope of improving your Yiddish enough to speak Yiddish more often with Doug (who is not Jewish), and then you take a nap, and when you wake up you are finally feeling rested and vigorous and excited to face the world, but it’s dinnertime; all the rest of the X-Men and the New Mutants and everybody who lives in the mansion at the moment are downstairs in the living room with whatever was on the stove. 

Wait: not all of them. There’s your roommate again, right there, sitting down on your bed with those same sweatpants on and not much else.

Are you ill? She’s treating you almost as if you had a fever. “Ssssh,” she says, and places one hand on your forehead. “You’re hot.”

Are you ill? You are not; it’s a pun. (When you and Illyana first became best friends, she wasn’t confident enough in her English to make English puns. Now look at her.) She’s running one finger down over your forehead, your nose, your chin, your neck, the space between your shoulder blades, and circling the part of your chest where your breasts begin, unbuttoning your shirt with her other hand.

Sometimes she’s Fight Alongside Me Illyana. Sometimes she’s I’ll Handle It Ilya, which is sexy too; you’ve only recently encountered the words “top” and “bottom” (believe it or not, you found it first in an Elfquest fanzine) but they make so much sense. She’s literally above you, looking into your eyes while stroking your…

Something has changed: you’re sleeping in your old training bra, because they’re still too sensitive some days for you to sleep without a bra, but the unsupported cotton no longer fits well, and the elastic has worn out. Your breasts are real now, as real as your best friend’s, and more substantial than you thought they would ever be. Big enough that Ilya can cup your breast in her hand, and then withdraw her hand and trace a spiral toward your nipple, then lean down and bite it, very lightly, very lightly… your breasts are real, and you’re real, and your friend can take care of you (with her words, with her sword, with the kind of bite that means excitement and loyalty, and of course with her hands), as long as you don’t let your excitement at being seen, at being touched, at being a real girl (a girl who loves girls, or loves this one girl) phase you through your own bed….

You really are different now: you’re more comfortable in your own body, more comfortable as she explores it with a kind of confidence—a kind of trust—only she can bring. Your body has never felt this full, this rounded, this ready for her to explore. (As you’ve explored hers, with her hand in yours.) You’re comfortable in the way that only comes with waking up after long, restful sleep to a lover (is lover the right term? it is; you know that now) who will let you stay in bed, even as your hips and your ribs get more sensitive, start to move back and forth, can’t stay quite still.

Her straight blond, almost white-blond, hair falls over your face; you’re licking her hair and looking for her ear, and then she pushes you back down and something falls over your eyes, around your ears.

It’s a strip of sweet-smelling cotton, with elastic in the back. It’s a blindfold, yellow and black, repurposed from some old costume, and now all you can see is yellow and black, and then just black. You can’t see anyone. “Ilya,” you say. And then: “Go on.” She fixes the blindfold so that it stays in place, and makes another spiral with her fingers around your other breast, pressing down harder as she gets to the center, where your nipple responds to her touch. 

You can feel her teeth there too, lightly, lightly, and her hands, not holding you down but letting you stay down, on your back, letting her make all the decisions. It feels good for both of you when she makes the decisions. You can smell her sweat (there’s thyme in it). You can feel her sweat pants slide off, bunching up around your knees, then your ankles as she kicks them off. Your hips feel fuller, too: more like hers (if not as strong). You can feel her hips as she leans into yours.

It’s so dark where your eyes are: not the dark of the caverns, or sewers, or outer space, but a safe dark, an intimate dark. Illyana wouldn’t use magic on a blindfold when she could just pull it tighter, but it feels almost like a spell, or a theatrical show with just the pair of you there, nothing to see except nothing, just splendid scents and the taste of salt from her cheek as you touch it with your tongue and then draw back. 

You can feel her hand between your legs, reaching in between them, opening them up (don’t phase, don’t phase), where your hips feel rounder too, more like a grown woman’s, whatever that means, it’s your decisions that she can make all the decisions about what happens in your body right now, she’s opening you up, farther and farther than you would have thought possible, you are neither a creature of air nor of solid flesh but of water and fire, she’s taking part of you in her hand, reaching into you, you can feel what must be lube (she must have reached under your bed—or used a conjuring spell), you don’t belong to anyone but you are hers, she’s unwrapping you like a gift, you’re riding yourself like a waterfall, a flume, a high tide, you feel so safe, so free—

As your legs and hips contract and she rises above you, one of her hands still on your substantial breast, you realize that she’s no longer pinning your hands or wrists down. You’re still wearing a blindfold, and she’s still not talking, and you still trust her so much, so hard, with all of you, and you’re still buzzing and waterfalling inside a little, still willing yourself not to phase. 

But now she’s moving your right hand up and placing something warm inside it, moving your hand back and forth along that thing, and touching the inside of your *left* wrist with her thumb, moving her thumb back and forth, as if to encourage you to move your own hand around whatever you’re holding. You do, and you discover that you’re holding something narrow and round and warm, something supple and fleshy and nearly hairless, something that ends in a kind of arrowhead, something boneless but strong, something longer than—you run your fingers down it, not squeezing but brushing, clasping stroking—longer than your arm?

Whatever you’re holding gets thicker, without growing stiff; you haven’t felt either end yet, so you move your fingers out to the triangular end, and then back—it’s like playing a flute, if you played the flute; no, more like a very thin saxophone—and down the shaft to find the other end, but you can’t find it, it’s part of Illyana’s body, which (you can feel it, and hear it) is arcing and almost bucking as you move the tail around, and her other hand must be between her own legs.

"You're ready for me to touch it," you say, and you can almost feel her nod. You sit up to kiss her hard, almost biting her lip, while keeping her tail in your hand, and her tail thrashes and wraps itself around you and she pulls herself towards you with her long tail (so long, so flexible) wrapped around you. You can feel her eyes on you even though you can’t see.

Her tail, now that it's fully extended, poking around, works like a hook, a long and wonderful hook: now she’s caught your hand like a fish, like a fish that so very much wants to be caught, pulling you towards her ribs, her side, the bony part of her thigh, hooking and sliding your hand down below her bellybutton, showing you just where she wants you to touch, and—with its pressure on you—how hard.

You find the space between her legs and place your own hand there, beside the shaft of the tail, which is already pulsing and thrashing. The shaft of the tail moves aside to let you in, and Illyana nearly falls forwards, pushing you back down onto your bed, and then she rises above you—at least that’s what you think is happening; it’s all flesh and sound and tactility and heat and motion, you can’t see a thing—and you can feel the pulse of her tail on your wrist, still catching you the way that you want to be caught, as you place your fingers, gently, so gently, decisively inside, and go deeper inside, the tail still pulsing. She's soaked. You're soaked too. She's even more so as you start to reach--

And that’s what it takes. She says “Oh!” and her tail snaps, once, twice, five times, seven times, you lose count, how excited are you to be here with her right now? so excited you’ve lost basic math, don’t phase, don’t phase, you won’t be able to turn back solid again without taking your blindfold off and you don’t want to take it off, you want the kinds of wet, the kinds of softness, the kinds of dense, the kinds of supple around you and the scents (salt, thyme, sugar, a bit of sulfur around the tail) to engulf you still, don’t phase, don’t phase—

Where’s the triangle end of her tail now? It’s between your own thighs, this is new, the tail has a mind of its own, it’s in two places at once, so are you, and she must have put her hand on your so solid breast just now, cupping it, feeling the rib just underneath it, the triangle has its own rhythm, it's like turning on a faucet, it's like being tickled but ten thousand times more than that, it's like she's using the end of that long tail to tease you so hard you’re coming again.

And then you do phase, and she says “I was wondering how long it would take until that happened,” and you want to say “Did you make me do that?” but the answer is, of course, that she made you because you let her, and she let you. But now you have phased. You're probably inside a blanket or two. You can’t take clothing on or off while phased—you can’t touch yourself when fully phased, either—so you ask (you can make the air move) “Am I safe?” (because you like being in your bed with Illyana but you don’t want to end up literally inside your bed) and she says “You’re safe.”

So you materialize on top of your bed, on your quilt by that spiral-bound LISP book, and Illyana is grinning at you, her blond hair still falling over her face, so close to yours, no sign of extra limbs anywhere on her body, and she’s saying “You’re safe, you’re safe here, you’re so safe here,” and she’s somehow got her black sleeveless tee back on, though her pants are still off, and she says “I’m hungry,” and smiles. 

You say “Pantsless dinner then?” and she says “Apparently” and then something in Russian you’ll ask about later, and you ask “Room service?” and she says “Da” and you phase again through your bedframe and through the floor. You’ll be back with a tray in about fifteen minutes.

You mention that you’d totally do that again, and she starts to say something in Russian, stops herself, says “the tail, or the nap, or the blindfold?” and you say “the tail and the blindfold, for sure; the nap depends on how well I study,” and she nods and breaks out the grimoire.

The two of you stay up till the following sunrise, reading, mostly, while holding hands.


End file.
